Captain Cesara Vale stood alone at the helm of the Iron Leviathan, a solitary figure amidst a self-created cataclysm. A raging maelstrom of ice howled around her, sculpted and sustained by sheer will. Jagged shards danced on ferocious winds, glittering lethally in the unnatural light blazing from her irises – twin suns of incandescent blue fury in a face set like stone. Everyone else had fled the exposed deck long ago; none dared remain within the lethal radius of her concentration. The cost of a single lapse was annihilation.
Cesara, a Step Three Ascendant – a mere stride below Kaaraore's legendary General – wielded ice with mastery honed over decades. Yet this task pushed her limits. Creating and maintaining the colossal ice ramp against the titanic Wall, while the chains strained to haul the monstrous ship upwards, demanded every shred of power and focus. Sweat beaded on her brow only to instantly freeze into tiny, glittering pearls of agony. Muscles screamed, bones felt compressed under the immense metaphysical weight. One flicker of doubt, one miscalculation of the ramp's integrity or angle, and eight hundred meters of empty air awaited the Leviathan and all aboard.
The groaning ascent felt eternal, each meter gained a victory wrested from gravity and exhaustion. Beside her, leaning heavily on his gnarled cane as if the storm were a mere breeze, stood the old man. His presence was an anchor, or perhaps a reminder.
"How you holdin' up, little missy?" His voice, raspy but calm, cut through the shrieking wind.
Cesara didn't turn, her gaze locked on the diminishing red rock face. "Functional," she gritted out between labored breaths that crystallized instantly. "And how many campaigns must I lead before you drop that infernal nickname, old man?"
A dry chuckle escaped him. "Hoho! Functional's good. Keep it that way. The tricky bits's still ahead."
Finally, the shuddering vessel crested the Wall's impossible summit. For a heart-stopping moment, it perched precariously on the edge of the world, suspended solely on Cesara's ramp of ice. The chains fell away, their purpose served. Now, gravity alone would be the engine, and her control the only brake. The ramp had to be flawless – too steep, and the ship would plunge nose-first to destruction; too shallow, and it might not clear the edge or gain enough momentum to survive the impact. A single fracture in the ice meant oblivion.
Cesara drew a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to pull the very cold into her core. With a guttural cry of effort, she unleashed a torrent of power. The ice ramp surged forward beyond the precipice, thickening, smoothing, arcing downwards towards the distant, unseen ocean on the other side. It was a bridge of frozen desperation.
The Leviathan, released, began its descent. Not a slide, but a terrifying, accelerating fall guided by the icy chute. Inside the ship, chaos erupted. Those not already braced were thrown violently. Muffled screams, the clatter of loose gear, and the sickening groan of stressed metal filled the lower decks as the world tilted violently. Outside, the wind roared past like a vengeful spirit, clawing at the iron hull.
Cesara remained rooted, a statue of concentration at the helm, channeling power downwards to reinforce the ramp as the ship plummeted. The ice held, screaming under the strain but holding. Seconds stretched into an eternity of falling.
CRASH-SHUDDER!
The impact slammed through the ship like a giant's fist. The Leviathan struck the ocean surface with colossal force, its hull shrieking in protest, decks buckling under the strain. Water geysered high into the air. For a horrifying moment, it seemed the great ship might simply break apart. Then, miraculously, it bobbed, wobbled violently, but stayed afloat, settling into the churning water.
Cesara sagged against the helm railing, the blinding light in her eyes snuffing out, leaving only profound exhaustion. The ice storm dissipated instantly, leaving eerie silence broken only by the ship's groans and the slap of waves. She pushed herself upright, her voice a whip-crack despite her weariness, aimed at the groaning sailors staggering to their feet or retching over the side.
"On your feet! Damage assessments, now! Check every seam, every plate! We are beyond the Wall. There are no safe harbors here. Move!"
Below decks, the aftermath was less commanding, more visceral. Mikel lay flat on his back on the cold metal floor, forearm thrown over his eyes, chest heaving. "Gods below… I swear my heart tried to leap out of my mouth and swim for shore."
The young man with curly brown hair, Kevin, sat up more easily, rubbing his neck with a wince but managing a grin. "Honestly? Not as bad as I pictured."
Mikel lifted his arm, staring at him incredulously. "Not as bad? What in the nine hells did you picture? Being slowly digested by a kraken?"
Kevin shrugged, his smile disarmingly innocent. "Pretty much! I figured the ship would crack open like an egg mid-air and we'd have to swim the rest of the way. This? We landed! Mostly in one piece!"
Kiera, already bouncing back, turned her attention to Corvus. He sat hunched in a corner, head buried in his knees, trembling slightly. "Hey," she nudged his shoulder, genuine concern cutting through her usual bravado. "You look like shit. You okay?"
Corvus raised his head slowly. His face was pale, slick with sweat that seemed too heavy for the cool air. "Just… dizzy," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. The unnatural thrumming in his chest had lessened after crossing the Wall, but it had been replaced by a deep, unsettling heat radiating from his core. A fever. Perfect timing. 'Just my rotten luck,' he thought bitterly.
As the battered ship pushed forward into the unnaturally dark and still waters beyond the Wall, the five roommates gathered in their cramped space. Mikel had quickly bonded with Kevin, the soulfire-ignited lancer, and Nelly, the quiet girl with stark black-and-white hair who radiated the controlled energy of a Step One Kindled.
It was Nelly who broke the tentative calm. Her sharp eyes fixed on Corvus, who was trying to subtly wipe sweat from his brow. Her voice was cool, devoid of the camaraderie Mikel had fostered. "I confess, I didn't expect to share quarters with someone of your… notoriety, Corvus Fuller."
Corvus kept his gaze on the grimy floorplates. "Not sure what you're talking about." The feigned ignorance was thin, weary.
A humorless chuckle escaped Nelly. "Modesty doesn't suit you. News travels, even to the quieter corners. The capital thrives on peace. Blood spilled openly in its streets? That leaves a mark. People remember."
Mikel and Kiera exchanged confused, wary glances. The atmosphere thickened. Corvus sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion and rising irritation. "Spit it out, Nelly. The cryptic act is tedious."
Nelly's composure hardened, her eyes flashing. "My point," she said, standing abruptly, "is whether it's wise to stake our lives, this entire mission, alongside a murderer!"
Corvus actually laughed then, a short, harsh bark devoid of humor. He pushed himself up, swaying slightly. The fever burned, making his vision swim. "Wisdom's window slammed shut the moment you boarded this floating coffin. Babbling about it now just makes you sound shrill." He met her furious gaze, his own eyes fever-bright but cold. "Remorse? No. Some cuts need making. And don't fret," he added, his voice dropping to a dangerous rasp, "you'll have blood on your own hands soon enough. Does distance or unfamiliarity make it cleaner? Less real?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Bathroom."
He pushed past Kevin, who had half-risen to restrain Nelly, and stumbled out into the corridor, slamming the door behind him. Leaning heavily against the cold metal wall, he gasped. The fever was spiking, a furnace blazing inside him. The corridor seemed to tilt.
He staggered towards the small, utilitarian head – little more than a sink bolted above a toilet. Splashing tepid water on his face brought no relief, only a shocking contrast to his burning skin. He gripped the sink, staring into the small, smudged mirror above it.
The face looking back was ghastly: pale, sweat-sheened, eyes shadowed and unnaturally bright. He leaned closer, breath fogging the glass. He wiped the condensation away with a trembling hand.
The reflection that cleared wasn't his own.
Instead, the mirror framed a vista of impossible, unsettling beauty. A vast, dark garden stretched into gloom, but it pulsed with a sinister life. Plants writhed subtly, stones seemed to shift, the very soil breathed. Moss-covered arches lined a central pathway leading towards an enormous, ancient tree whose gnarled branches clawed at a starless void. Beneath its shadowed canopy, seated on roots like twisted thrones, sat a figure shrouded in absolute, velvety darkness.
Corvus froze, breath catching. He blinked rapidly, rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his palms. The impossible scene remained. And as his stunned gaze locked onto the shrouded figure beneath the tree, a horrifying certainty dawned: It was looking back